


Another Stupid Mistake

by candyisdandy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:31:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyisdandy/pseuds/candyisdandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire gets very drunk, and obtains a new tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Stupid Mistake

Grantaire stumbles into the tattoo parlour, waving a bottle of vodka around and yelling at the chairs. One tattoo artist gives him a second glance, but only because her customer, a small rather feminine looking man getting a rose tattooed onto his wrist, is looking terrified. 

"Hey, you!" the drunkard slurs at the extremely large and muscled man whose face is currently furrowed in concentration over a rather complicated traditional Grecian design. He looks up, menace clouding his eyes. 

"Iwannatattoo." he yells. The giant sighs, clearly used to the raucous nature of clients, and points at a man with huge masses of curly brown hair, with purple and pink and blue and green highlights. It looks like a rainbow's thrown up on him. The lanky tattooist grins, clearly satisfied that he's finally got an interesting customer, and seats Grantaire firmly into the chair. 

"Hiya." he says, smiling so hard Grantaire thinks his face is going to break. 

"My name's Courfeyrac, I know it's strange, and I have been waiting all day for someone who doesn't just want a flower, and this is a completely wild guess, but you want something more .... fun?" 

In reply to this, Grantaire somehow manages to slide his phone out of the pocket of his ridiculously tight jeans, and shows him a picture. 

Courfeyrac smirks at him, and nods his head in faked sincerity. 

Grantaire takes a couple more swigs from the bottle, and the last thing he remembers before he wakes up is Courfeyrac telling him this isn't going to hurt, and then the searing fucking pain of the needle. 

He opens his eyes groggily and stretches out, back arching like a frightened cat. He searches the not so familiar surroundings for anything that could give an indication to his location, because he is obviously not at home. This place is far too clean and immaculate. He's not panicking though, this isn't the first time he's woken up in a stranger's bed. 

Oh, shit. 

He remembers the way the tattoo artist had looked at him, and how the strangely feminine guy had smiled cautiously in his direction. It could have been either one of them, or maybe he stumbled into a club on the way home and found someone there. Honestly, he doesn't really care who it was. He's not really one for the awkward good mornings and having to discuss the sex and having to see the man who made you moan. 

He's about to get up and leave, when a wave of nausea overcomes him, and he leans over the bed to throw up. Surprisingly, it doesn't spatter all over the fancy rug, because someone's put a basin there. What the fuck? 

He hears footsteps approaching the room he's currently doubled over in, and resigns himself to having to accept his one night stand is going to actually talk to him. A pretentious cough interrupts the silence. He went home with someone classy? That makes a difference. 

He glances up to inform the guy that right now he's not in the mood for talking because vomit will probably erupt over both of them if he even tries to open his mouth, when he realises who's standing there. Fucking hell. 

A tall muscled man clad in almost all dark red, with perfectly messy blonde curls framing his God given face like a halo. His cheekbones slanted at such an angle Grantaire thought he was going to break, and they led to the most captivating eyes he had ever had the pleasure of making contact with. They were the blue of the deepest ocean, and of a clear sky, and of ice, and the dark navy that only comes on navy uniforms, mixed with hints of emerald and gold and everything in between. He felt like he was going to faint, like a fucking damsel in distress, but instead he just smirked. 

"Good morning Apollo." 

"Grantaire, pleasure as always." The sarcasm lacing his words should have had Grantaire up ready to punch him, but instead it made him fall in love with him a little more (Also, if he stood up, he'd probably fall right back over while puking. That wasn't a good look.) 

"Would you care to explain what you are doing in my bed?" 

"Well I'd love to, but seeing as I've been completely dead to the world since I blacked out, I honestly don't have a clue."

"I don't have time for your games," Enjolras snaps.

"You and I both know /how/ you got here, what I want to know is why you were completely smashed, in a tattoo parlour of all places, causing a fuss, when you promised you'd try to give alcohol up." 

"How dare you?! I was not causing a fuss!" Grantaire gasps, miming offence at Enjolras' insinuation. 

"You were sat on top of the cash register, yelling Vive la France!, which, by the way, makes no sense, as we are in England. You had also smashed your virtually empty vodka bottle on the floor, and were shouting, apparently, for me to come and get you. One of the people who worked there was sensible enough to take your phone off you and ring me. Who knows what damage you could have caused had you been left?"

Grantaire has no suitable retort for any of this, so he huffs and attempts to move away from Enjolras. It is only when he moves his arm to push the duvet off him that he notices an ache echoing up and down his bicep. This isn't the first time he's gotten a drunk tattoo, but this is the first one he doesn't remember. 

He peels the sleeve off carefully, peering onto the skin to try and figure out what the tattoo says. 

Enjolras notices, and steps over, taking charge as always. 

"Let me see." he fusses, and Grantaire would be lying if he said that the façade he put up of not wanting Enjolras to do it was completely truthful. 

Enjolras withdraws his hands and eyes from Grantaire's arm, and barely concealed fury and also mirth dance in his impossibly blue pupils. 

"What?! What does it say?" 

Enjolras stands, apparently mentally debating with himself whether this situation is worthy of his anger or just completely hilarious. The latter obviously wins and he disappears into fits of giggles. Tears are soon streaming down his face, and his cheeks are the same colour as the hoodie he wears. 

"Oh my god, 'Taire!" he chokes out between howls of laughter. 

"You are such an idiot!!" 

Deciding that it's too early for humiliation, Grantaire manages to push himself out of bed, and storms (very slowly) to the bathroom. He can still hear Enjolras cackling his head off like an old woman. He pulls up his sleeve, and squints to make out the slanting font inked on his arm. Finally, his eyes focus and he can see what has Enjolras, who never laughs, in tears. 

"The best wines" he mutters to himself, reading aloud. 

"Are the ones ... we drink with ... friends." He stands there, staring at his reflection with incredulous disbelief for a couple of seconds. Enjolras is still laughing. 

"Ah, fuck."

**Author's Note:**

> This came about because of a picture the lovely @starkidcats (follow her on twitter yeah) tweeted and asked for someone to write a fic on it. I haven't got anyone to beta it yet so sorry for any mistakes, and enjoy.


End file.
